Puppets On A String
by TiTivillus
Summary: There's a rusty chunk of metal in his hands and a zombie-like apocalypse going down and all Dean can think about is that Sam's got a bullet stuck in his shoulder. Coda to 14x20 "Moriah". Hurt/Comfort. Protective!Dean. Hurt!Sam


**Title:** Puppets On A String

**Summary:** There's a rusty chunk of metal in his hands and a zombie-like apocalypse going down and all Dean can think about is that Sam's got a bullet stuck in his shoulder. Coda to 14x20 "Moriah". Hurt/Comfort. Protective!Dean. Hurt!Sam

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the boys or the show.

**Warnings:** Spoilers up to 14x20. Violence. Gory Language. Bad Language.

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At first they were no more than a chill in the air, a shimmer of mist. Dean saw them materialize in the shadows of the night, rising from the damp ground and taking on form. Their dead eyes sought them out like moths sought the flame, their pallid skin reflecting the spilt light of an ashen moon, their cracked, bloodless lips twitching up into predatory smiles. For all but a moment it was deadly silent, then they started moving, rising from their graves, from the earth, from the depths of hell.

Rows of tombstones stood left and right, front and behind, like a sea of dead in the middle of the undead. More and more of them crumbled with the weathering of centuries and the force of some unfathomable power. God's power. His _bidding._

Dean took a step backward on the damp soil, his fingers wrapped firmly around the chunk of rusty metal he had yanked from the wrought-iron gates. Gnarled tree roots and moss made the ground a trap of its own, as though the graves were calling out to them. The place echoed with grief and loss and the buzzing thirst for blood of thousands of tortured souls. They were moving in, lurking under the veil of black, their movements slow but filled with purpose, every uncoordinated forward step a promise of vengeance.

"Dean…" Sam's voice was a whisper, drowned out by their gleeful snarls chuckles. Dean's heart froze as they advanced on them, their forms becoming more discernible in the shadowy twilight of the graveyard. With each move, globs of blood oozed from their rotten flesh. Their skin was gnarled with blood-crusted flaps of concave skin. The air reeked of sewage and Sulphur, clogging their lungs, making it hard to breathe.

In the midst of it all, Dean saw the glow of hellfire red eyes. He saw a glint of razor-sharp fangs. Ghouls, spirits, Rawheads, Crocottas, Zombies, Vampires, Demons. They were all here, closing in on them.

One of them was more eager than the others, its massive eye swiveling wildly, nostrils flaring as though it could smell their fear, as though it could hear the rapid beat of their hearts.

Dean lifted the rusty piece of metal above his shoulder, ready to take the fucker's head off, ready to go down swinging - _literally_. He swung the pipe, just as a Ghoul latched onto him and a Vampire went for his neck and Dean squeezed his eyes shut, readying himself for the pain, but it didn't come. Instead, a hand gripped his upper arm tight and then there was a flash of light, followed by the unmistakable feeling of getting zapped away by angel grace. The flap of wings and the breeze of clean air were the first signs of what had happened, but it still took Dean a moment to fully come to his senses when he blinked his eyes open to find himself in the mapping room of the bunker.

"What—" he was about to ask what happened, when the clatter of metal hitting the floor cut him off, the chunk of iron having fallen from Sam's hands as he swayed.

Dean had just enough time to catch his brother before his knees sagged, grabbing Sam by the shoulders and then immediately regretting it, when Sam let out a pained gasp.

"Sorry," Dean muttered, yanking his hand away as though he got burned from the touch. It came away bloody and Dean felt sick. Guiding his brother down into one of the chairs by the mapping table, Dean proceeded to take his jacket off and draped it over Sam's shaking shoulders before pulling a bandana from the back of his jeans. He folded the cloth into a little triangle and pulled Sam's shaking hands away from the wound.

"Here, let me."

Sam hissed when Dean exchanged the blood-drenched fabric with the bandana, trying to stem the blood flow and Dean sent a look at Cas. "Bullet's still in. Can you—"

"I've used too much of my grace to teleport us here," Cas said in a dull voice, his gaze oddly vacant as he locked eyes with Dean. Jack's death had hit him hard and he looked absolutely shaken, not quite steady on his own feet. They must have made quite the picture, with Sam covered in blood and Cas barely able to stand upright. Dean's own hands hadn't stopped shaking, his pulse was still going a mile a minute.

"Sam, I'm sorry—" Cas took a step toward the youngest Winchester, but Sam shook his head, holding up a hand.

"'s alright," he said in a breathy voice. "I've had worse."

That much, at least, was true.

Turns out God was just as much of a dick as Michael and Lucifer had always made him out to be. Between thousands of Hell's souls being unleashed and all the hard work and accomplishments of their entire lives being undone with the snip of a Chuck's fingers, Dean could hardly think at all, could barely even function beyond trying to get his breathing back under control. But Sam was hurt and Cas couldn't fix it and in a way, on some very basic level, that was reason alone for Dean to gather his bearings. There would be enough time to freak out over what had happened later. For now, Sammy had a bullet stuck in his shoulder and Dean had a little brother to take care of and that was all that mattered.

"Cas," Dean said, his voice gruff as he sank down in the chair next to his brother. "Can you get me the med kit? I need tweezers, a needle and thread, gauze, disinfectant, fuck I need everything. Just grab it all and bring it."

As soon as Cas left, Dean leaned forward, drawing out a breath. "Alright, let me hear it. How bad?"

"Five," Sam huffed out, closing his eyes and Dean frowned, watching his brother's eyes move beneath their eyelids. His jaw stiffened, barely biting back a moan and Dean stood up, concern drowning out his own shock. 'Five' my ass.

"Sam?"

His brother swallowed forcibly and opened his eyes, glassy gaze drifting across the map room, his whole face pinched with pain and oddly pale in the fluorescent light of the bunker.

Dean cupped Sam's neck, trying to get him to focus. "Hey, eyes on me. What's going on? Talk to me."

"Dean…" Sam shook his head a bit, swallowing again. "Jack… h-he's—"

"I know," Dean said, his own heart locked up with pain at the thought. Funny how he had felt so ready to pull that trigger just short of an hour ago and now here he was, feeling as though a huge chunk of his heart had been ripped out and stamped on. Jack had been a kid. He'd been their kid and now he was…

Sam let out another moan, his face blanching even more than before and turning ghostly white. He swallowed frantically, then again and Dean jumped into action, recognizing the signs. He grabbed the trash bin from beneath the mapping table and hurried to hold it under Sam's chin. "Okay," he said in a quiet, soothing voice, using his palm to support Sam's forehead. "Okay, okay—let it out."

Sam winced when Dean brushed the bangs from his face, then his stomach turned and he started retching. It was painful to hear him gasp and moan in between desperate heaves, unable to draw in breaths through the pain that radiated from his shoulder into his sternum.

Cas returned to the room with a worried expression. "Dean, maybe I should—"

"No, just give him a second."

"I'm f-f—" Sam tried but then gagged again and Dean's heart clenched with empathy. They waited him out in silence with Dean offering up the occasional word of comfort, meant only for Sam's ears. When it was all said and done, Cas handed Dean the med supplies and took the soiled trash bin from Sam's shaking hand. He left again, whether it was to grieve or to spare himself the sight of Sam's suffering, Dean couldn't be sure.

Sam cleaned himself up as well as possible before slumping in his chair, looking even more miserable than before. He was ashen and his eyes were brimming with tears. Dean could hardly stand to look at him, it hurt so much to see the absolute devastation in his eyes. The hopelessness. The disappointment and betrayal of having found out that God had played them from the beginning. That they had never been more to him than puppets on a string to him. All the suffering, all the loss. Their whole lives… it had all just been a cruel game to him. Some sick form of entertainment.

And all the lives they had saved? Every single ghost, demon and monster they had ever killed? They were all roaming the earth again. Chuck had literally taken the only thing they had had left – their family legacy – and burnt it to ashes. All the sacrifices they had made were for nothing. Every person they had ever lost to the 'cause' – all of them had died for nothing.

And to see Sam, out of all people, having his belief in God crushed, was unbearable.

Dean scooted closer with his chair, while Sam dutifully took Dean's jacket off and started peeling himself one-handedly out of his blood-soaked flannel.

Sterilizing the pair of tweezers with a lighter, Dean got up and grabbed the Whisky from the library. He sat back down and shoved the half-finished bottle into Sam's shaking hands. "Get as much down as you can. This is gonna hurt."

Not as much as losing their mom hurt. Or losing Jack. Or having your entire beliefs and hopes crushed in the span of a few seconds. But it was stull gonna hurt. And seeing Sam in pain didn't sit well with Dean. It never would.

When Sam lifted the bottle to his lips and drowned about a quarter of what was left in the bottle in one go, Dean knew. Things were worse than he had expected.

The silence stretched between them when Dean helped Sam out of his shirt. He winced when the torn fabric of Sam's shirt, pulled on the frayed skin beneath, eliciting another pained groan from his brother.

"Sam…?" Dean wasn't sure what he wanted to say. Not until the words were already on the tip of his tongue. "That bullet could have killed you."

Sam was quiet for a long time, the sound of his harsh, uneven breathing the only sound filling the air. "It could have killed you, too."

Dean swallowed, twirling the pair of tweezers nervously between his sweaty fingers. "I just want you to know…" he broke himself off, looking down at the floor, then up again. "I'm glad you're… that you're still—"

"Yeah," Sam gave a tight smile, his eyes overflowing. He reached up with his good hand to hastily chase the lone tear away and then sniffed, looking all but five years old. "Me too."

Dean thought about thousands of unleashed souls from hell and the massive dick that called himself God and how they were all just puppets – waiting for their strings to get cut. He thought about Mary and Jack and all the others they had lost, so much suffering and loss in a world that never seemed to repay them for their sacrifice. And then he thought about Sam.

And he thanked his lucky stars that they were in this together.

"This is gonna hurt," Dean warned in a whisper, putting a warm hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezing the tense, knotted muscle there. "I got you."

Sam took in a shaky breath through his nose and nodded. "I know."

**The End. **

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A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Reviews make me happy :)


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